Brett Battles - No Return

Standing, he stretched, then walked back to the master suite. This had been his parents’ room when they’d still been alive, but they wouldn’t have recognized it now. All their 1950s-era furniture was gone, replaced by stacks of banker boxes full of newspapers and bills and files containing God knew what-all stuff his wife didn’t want to get rid of but also didn’t want at their house.

He turned on the light. Recently he’d covered the windows with plywood sheeting, creating a dark, cavelike atmosphere. He kind of liked it, and thought he’d probably end up leaving them in place when he was done.

The woman was exactly where he’d left her, lying on the small air mattress in the center of the room. Her wrists and ankles were still tied, but there was no chance she was going anywhere. The intravenous drip hooked to her right arm, 0.5 percent Beta-Somnol in saline, took care of that. She was in dreamland, and would be until he decided otherwise.

He’d been surprised at how easy getting her into his car at the motel had been.

“Miss Mendes?” he had said after she’d answered the knock on the door to Stewart’s room.

“Yes?”

“I’m Detective Thompson. I understand you’re a friend of Wesley Stewart?”

“Yes,” she said. The concern on her face was both sudden and predictable. “Is something wrong?”

The man had hesitated just enough to sell the lie. “There’s been an accident.”

“An accident? Is Wes all right?”

“I’m afraid he’s going into surgery. But before they put him under, he asked for you. I was sent here to drive you over.”

“Yes. Yes, please.” She moved back into the room, slipped on her shoes, then grabbed a purse off the dresser and joined him outside.

“I should let Dione know,” she said. “Our boss.”

“Do you just want to call her from the hospital once you know a little more?”

She nodded. “Yeah. Good idea. I’ll do that.”

He stuck the needle in her leg before he even started the car, and she was out a few seconds later. No scream, no fuss. The only physical work he’d had to undertake was carrying her into his parents’ place once they got there.

The man checked her pulse, then turned off the light and closed the door.

Now he could take that nap.

Wes drove across town, working his way through neighborhoods he hadn’t visited since he was a teenager, avoiding the main drags completely. Twice he turned down side streets when sedans pulled onto the road behind him. And twice he watched the sedans drive by without a glance in his direction.

Nerves on edge, he continued toward Downs Avenue. As he got closer his thoughts turned from worrying about being followed to worrying that the pay phone he was heading toward might not be there any longer. They were a dying breed, after all.

As he turned into the 7-Eleven at the corner of Downs and Inyokern Road, he allowed himself a small grin in relief. It was still there, right where he remembered it, next to a waist-high concrete wall that lined the edge of the parking lot.

He parked the bike so that it was facing outward, ready to move, then picked up the phone, deposited some change, and dialed his friend’s number.

“Hello?” Casey said.

“It’s Wes.”

“If you’re calling about that picture, I haven’t been able to find any information yet.”

Wes had forgotten he’d sent his friend the picture he’d found on the Web.

“Not the picture. Something else I need you to check on.”

“I’m just about to head out to lunch. Whatever it is, I’ll help you when I-”

“I’m in trouble,” Wes said quickly.

There was dead air for a moment. “What kind of trouble?”

“Bad trouble.”

“Hold on.”

There was a click, and a prerecorded promo for the Quest Network’s “Strange History Week” let Wes know he was on hold. Thirty seconds later, another click and Casey was back.

“Judy just went to lunch,” he said. “More privacy in her office. Now, what do you mean you’re in trouble?”

Wes quickly told his friend what had been going on.

“A cover-up?” Casey said.

“That’s what I think.”

“And they’ve taken Anna and this Tony guy?” His tone bespoke his disbelief.

“I know, it sounds nuts. But I don’t see any other explanation. The police are investigating, but I highly doubt they’re going to find them. And even if I tell them all this, they won’t listen to me. I need more proof. Something that will force them to believe me.”

“What can I do to help?”

“You ready to take some notes?” Wes asked.

“Absolutely.”

Casey told Wes to give him thirty minutes and he’d call back. Wes moved into the shade in front of the store, but still close enough to hear the phone if it rang.

He knew this was all his fault. Nothing would have happened at all if he’d just stayed in L.A. His dad had told him not to come back. Had insisted, actually. And for seventeen years Wes had stayed away.

He ran a hand through his hair, the desert breeze blowing around him. Then, like now … if he’d only walked away.

Sometimes the right thing isn’t the easy thing . His father’s voice, often silent, but always there.

Gee, thanks, Dad .

But the voice was right. He could never have walked away. Not now, and certainly not then.

Wes parked the van along the side of the dirt road where all the other cars had parked, then he, Lars, and Mandy piled out.

In the distance, they could hear music. U2, “Even Better Than the Real Thing.”

They’d gone only a dozen feet when Wes looked back at Lars. “Beer?”

His friend cringed, then ran back to the van and retrieved the six-pack he’d left on the floor.

As they reached the head of the trail leading to the Rocks, Michael Dillman stepped out of the shadows and blocked their way. “Evening, children. This is a party for grown-ups tonight. You bring any beer?”

Dillman was huge for a high school kid, at least six foot four, and had to be over two hundred and fifty pounds. All of which made him the perfect defensive lineman for the high school football team. It also made him the perfect candidate for party enforcer.

Lars held up the six-pack of Budweiser he’d liberated from his father’s refrigerator.

“Cool,” Dillman said, his whole body nodding with his head. “Have fun.”

Wes, Lars, and Mandy walked past the human roadblock and started up the path.

Growing up in the desert had some very distinct advantages. The first, and maybe the most important, was that with all that space, a teenager could get into and out of trouble without anyone in authority ever knowing about it: off-roading, hiking, and, of course, partying.

There were a lot of places in the hills outside of Ridgecrest where the high school kids could party. Wagon Wheel, the Ravine, the Wash, and the Drama Rocks-the last the location of the party that night. The Drama Rocks got its name because it’d first been “discovered” by members of the high school drama club back in the 1970s. In the years after, its use had grown to encompass a larger cross section of the school, but the name had stuck.

The Rocks were located high in the hills southeast of town. To one side you could see the faint glow of lights from Ridgecrest and China Lake, and to the other the Trona Pinnacles on Searles Lake.

The main feature of the Rocks was a massive, teardrop-shaped boulder that had been sheered away on one side, creating the perfect windbreak for a bonfire. Even better, it was positioned so that it was impossible for anyone-law enforcement, parents-on the distant highway to see the flames.